The wind off the cliff is sharp enough to sting, but you barely feel it. Your fingers trace the edges of the folded letters in your lap — Liam’s handwriting looping across the page, some words smudged from the damp that always seems to find its way here. You’ve read them so many times the paper feels thinner now but your brother was still gone.

The grass shifts behind you, and then there’s a warm weight over your shoulders — his jacket, smelling faintly of leather and cold air. He lowers himself beside you, close enough that his shoulder almost brushes yours. His eyes flick briefly to the letters before he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, gaze fixed on the horizon like he can’t stand to watch you cry.

“You haven’t been eating.. Or talking.”